Safe Without You (13 page)

              “Your ear will get tuned to the local dialect pretty quickly,” Cal reassured her.  “I’ll introduce you to a few people with whom you can practice chatting.”  He noticed Amber discreetly examining a couple of small Embera girls, their faces tattooed with dark, purple geometric designs.  “Don’t worry,” he smiled, “They’re painted on with vegetable dyes, not done with needles.  They last a week or two—like henna tattoos in India.”

              Amber squeezed Cal’s hand as she smiled at the girls.  They giggled and smiled back as the pair strolled by.  “People seem pretty laid back,” Amber nodded slightly, in approval. 

              When they got back to Cal’s house, they unloaded their shopping: some plantains, sweet and hot peppers, squash, onions, a fresh chicken, a loaf of bread, eggs, butter, milk, fresh fruit, coffee, and beer. 

              “What a feast!” Amber smiled as she helped put away their shopping. 

              “I always keep rice and pigeon peas, and some tinned food like tuna.  We get a few treats from home: boxes of mac and cheese, grated parmesan in a jar for spaghetti, my personal favorite—chocolate chips to make cookies.”

              “Two D…two American guys are baking cookies in the Panamanian jungle?”

              “We’re only human,” Cal shrugged, with a chuckle.  “Plus we get first rate mosquito netting, bug repellent, sunscreen, batteries, stuff like that.”

              “So there are some advantages to being a kept woman, here in the jungle?”

              “Absolutely.”  Cal popped her on the bottom, “Now, woman, fetch me a beer.” 

              “I’m beginning to think you have a booty fetish,” Amber said with a laugh.  She twisted off the cap on one of the beers and handed it to Cal.

              “Just
your
booty, it’s the only one I give a damn about.”  Cal took a swig. 

              Quickly they fell into a rhythm in the kitchen, humming, chatting, slicing and dicing.  Cal butterflied the chicken, removed the backbone, then pressed it between two dinner plates weighted with bricks.  Amber studied the process, a little puzzled. 

              “It makes the chicken more uniform, so it cooks evenly.  I hate it when one piece is charred and another is raw at the bone.”  Cal stuck out his tongue, to make his distaste clear.                Amber laughed, “Yeah, I hate that too.”

              Next, Cal started a wood fire out on the balcony in an improvised hibachi grill made from bricks, a couple of pieces of sheet metal, and some chicken wire. 

              Amber thought it was quite clever.  “You are quite the MacGyver, aren’t you?”

              Cal looked up from where he knelt, blowing on the twigs he was using as kindling, “You could say that.” 

              An hour later, they were sitting down at the little table.  Amber had made a sauté of squash, onions and peppers to go with their chicken, rice, and plantains.  They launched into the food.

              “I had no idea how hungry I was,” Amber swallowed a bite, “You can cook every night.”

              “I see your wily ways!  Tomorrow, you get to cook dinner for me…
and
Ramiro.  We’ll be gone a good part of the day checking out the plane.”

              “Ramiro?  He’s Latino?”  Amber took a swig of her beer.

              “Yeah, born in Panama, raised in the States.  He has cousins who live here in La Palma, some aunts and uncles about forty miles away.  It made for a good cover, a good reason why we’d start a business here—if anyone asks you, we went to college together in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.”

              “You better give me the whole story, so I can act like a real girlfriend.”

              “What?  You’re a fake girlfriend?”  Cal took a big bite of plantains.

              “You have to admit, it’s a little confusing…being the girlfriend of a guy who isn’t the person with whom I’m now consorting.”  Amber raised an eyebrow as she cut a piece of plantain. “Is Cal even your real name, or is it a fake identity?”  It was the first time this possibility had entered Amber’s mind.

              “Cal is my real name, but Compton isn’t it.”  Cal put his fork down.  “I suppose you have a right to know who I really am, since you know all the other hairy-scary stuff.”

              “I’m good with Cal.  You don’t have to tell me if it’s better for me not to know.”

              He shook his head, “No, I want to tell you.”  He paused,  “Ruston.  My name’s Calvin Lee Ruston.”

              “Pleased to meet you, Calvin Lee Ruston.”  Amber gave Cal a serious smile, “I’m not sure why, but you telling me that has made me feel ten times better—I guess I need to feel like you trust me…completely.”

              “One thing is for damn sure, you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel like I could trust you.”  Cal picked up his fork and knife again, “So what do you think about the plantains?  Pretty effin’ good, huh?” 

              Amber took a bite, “Yep, everything—everything is pretty effin’ good.”

Journal Reflection 11

You can tell a lot about a person from how they behave in the kitchen.  Assertive is good,
uber
controlling is not.  If your partner is a kitchen Nazi, watch out, scout!  I once dated a guy who became enraged over me not putting the spices back in the spice rack in alphabetical order.

Apparently I had put the cumin
before
the cinnamon.  He acted like it was a national tragedy.  I knew then that it was time to make a run for it.

              There are other things I watch for, too.  Like people who
only
cook with prepared foods—frozen, canned, and boxed food—instant this and that.  Those people are always looking for a short cut.  They’re willing to sacrifice flavor, nutrition, and substance for ease.  Granted, everyone needs a break occasionally, but if you have no idea what to do with a bunch of spinach or a nice piece of fish, or a bag of brown rice, well, you’re doomed to a culinary world where MSG and corn syrup are substituted for the things that make food truly satisfying on all levels.  If you’re always looking for the easy way, well, you’re not usually the person who’s going to stick around when the going gets tough. 

              You
can
go too far in the other direction, as well.  There are the people who can never just throw together a good tuna fish sandwich or a quick stir fry; the ones who have to turn every meal into an over-the-top production meant to impress with it’s opulence and excess.  You’re invited to dinner at eight, but it’s 11:30pm before the ostentatious chef finally serves the Guinea fowl with truffled fois grois and smoked gooseberry coulis.  Meanwhile, the dinner guests have gotten plastered on vodka gimlets and stuffed themselves so full of cocktail peanuts, they couldn’t give a damn if they’re being served stewed bandicoot on a cracker.  If you can’t get your head out of your own ass long enough to see that people would have been happier with spaghetti marinara at 8:30pm, then you’re more than a wee bit self-absorbed.

              People who know how to strike a balance between exertion and ease, between temperance and temptation, and between nutritious and delicious—those are the people who generally approach everything they do with conscious consideration.  The same approach works when you’re whipping together a new relationship: you have to know when to turn up the heat and make it sizzle, when to back it off the fire, when you need to toss in a fresh ingredient, or when something tried and true is the best way to go.  Every great chef may have a signature dish, but it can’t be the only good thing they can make. 

Chapter 11

Amber woke to the chug of a small outboard motor just outside the house.  Rolling over, she found Cal’s side of the bed empty.  She yawned, stretched and pushed the mosquito net back as she sat up.  A café con leche was the thing foremost on her mind until she heard the smack of the screen door, and the sound of Cal’s voice cajoling another man.  Amber sat on the edge of the bed, listening, afraid to interrupt the conversation.  Ramiro had arrived.

              “Are you out of your mind?”  Ramiro said, with an exasperated tone.  “You want to sleep with a chick, that’s your business, but bring her to live here?  What are you thinking?”

              “Now wait…you’re going to like her,” Cal said.  “She’s…”

              “White meat?  Girls around here too dark for you?”

              Cal lowered his voice, “She can hear you…”

              “I don’t give a damn if she can hear me.  This is the dumbest idea you have ever had.” 

              The screen door slammed again, and a few moments later, the whine of the outboard started again, before quickly fading into the distance.  Amber drew in a deep breath.  She wondered if she should start packing her bag.  She combed her hair back into a ponytail, and quickly dressed.  Pushing the curtain aside, she looked at Cal, slumped in a chair at the little table.

              “I’m guessing that must be…Ramiro.”  Amber pulled out a chair and sat down.

              “Yep.”  Cal ran his fingers back through his hair. 

              Amber tugged at a loose thread on the sleeve of her t-shirt.  “I guess this is what happens when you don’t think it through.”

              “He’s just blowing off steam.  He’ll be okay when he meets you.”

              “Why would that make a difference?  He sounds pretty pissed off.”

              “Let’s make some coffee.”  Cal started to get up, but Amber pushed him back with a hand.

              “Sit down, I’ll make it.  Start thinking it through—thoroughly.”  Amber got up and began making the coffee, “So where did he sod off to?”

              “I think he brought some stuff from the city for his cousins.  Probably to drop it off with them.”

              “Do they know what he really does?”  Amber took a couple of coffee cups out of the cupboard and grabbed the milk from the tiny fridge and put some in a pan to warm.

              “No, of course not.”

              Amber walked around to the doorway so she could look at Cal.  “So his own family—people that he’s known his entire life—can’t be trusted to know, but you thought it would be okay to tell some chick you met in a bar less than two weeks ago?  Look at it from his point of view.”

              Cal tilted his head back, as if the ceiling fan might give him an answer.  The coffee pot started to boil, and Amber turned back to snatch it off the stove.  She poured Cal his espresso shot, and then diluted hers with the warm milk.  She found the sugar bowl and a spoon, and put everything on a little tray with the coffee cups.  She carried it all carefully to the table, and sat down.

              “I can leave.  I’ll find a guide to take me to the national park.”

              “You don’t have enough money to get supplied, get in, get out, and get back to Panama City.”  Cal stared at his coffee cup like he was trying to make it levitate.

              “Then I’ll Skype my parents and ask them to wire some money to the bank here.  Screw it.  I’ll go back to the Netherlands.”  Amber pressed her lips together, afraid she might start crying.

              “Don’t…say that.”  Cal’s lip had the hint of a tremble.  “It’ll be okay.  Go down to the beach today, take a book, relax.  Let me handle Ramiro.”

              Amber nodded silently as Cal pushed a stray hair back over her ear. 

              “Do you still want me to make dinner?” she asked.

              “Yes, that would be really nice.  You know the way to a man’s…brain is through his stomach.”  Cal smiled tightly.

              “Okay.”  Amber sipped at her coffee, thinking.  “I’ll stay at the beach until three, then I’ll go to the market. Dinner at eight o’clock sharp.”

              Cal stood up.  “I’ll make us some toast.”

              “I’m not very hungry.  I’ll just take some fruit and water with me to the beach.”

###

              The beach was small, but pleasant enough.  There was family of foreign tourists, a couple who looked like Panamanians from the city, and a few local kids playing.  Amber flapped out her beach towel, and soon lost herself in a paperback mystery.  Time passed quickly as she alternated between reading, and taking a dip when it got too warm.  She played with the kids some too, practicing her Spanish as she helped them build a sand castle, until they went scampering home for lunch around 2:00.  An hour later, she packed up her little string bag, tied on her sarong, and headed back toward town. 

              She noticed a small boat with a new-looking outboard motor moored to one of the stilts holding up Cal’s house.  The door was unlocked, and she went in to drop off her things and get dressed before going to the market.  The living area was empty as she passed through, and she thought she was alone until she heard the toilet flush.  She pulled on her clothes quickly, and snatched the cash Cal had left for her on the bed with a little note.  Her thought was to dash out before anyone saw her.  But when she pushed the curtain of the bedroom aside, a dark and handsome man stood in the living room.  He was a bit older than Cal, maybe thirty or thirty-two, and like many Panamanians, he had Latin features mixed with a dash of Afro-Caribbean.  His skin was a light caramel brown, his black hair was cropped close, and his dark brown eyes had a smoldering look that complimented the sensuousness of his mouth.  He was taller than Cal, perhaps six feet in height, with ropy, well-defined muscles.   He looked more like a guy you’d find in GQ, Amber thought, than the DEA agent she knew him to be.

              She cleared her throat, “Ramiro, I presume?”

              “You presume correctly.”  His eyes took her in, not in a flirtatious way, but in the way a soldier analyzes a threat.  “And you must be Amber.”

              She nodded.  She thought she might as well cut to the chase.  “I’m not here to cause trouble…or to keep anyone from doing their job.  I’m here…” her voice faltered.  Why exactly
was
she there?