The Jade Notebook (23 page)

Pepe rubs his forehead. “Well, I’m sure he’ll handle it. In the meantime, I’ll talk with the volunteers, make sure they stay on task.”

Wendell still looks distraught. “Is that it?”

“Don’t worry. But remember,
muchachos
, stay off the beach. Not just for the turtles. These poachers could be dangerous.”

“What about the volunteers, Pepe?” I demand. “Isn’t it dangerous for them?”

He closes his eyes for a long moment. “They’re specially trained.”

“Then where are they? We need to talk to them. The police need to talk to them!” I’m getting so worked up, sweat is pouring down my face.

“I’ll put the police in touch with them,” Pepe assures us in a measured voice. “It’s not your job to interrogate them,
muchachos
.”

Wendell’s jaw stiffens. “We have to stop these guys, Pepe. Every night of poaching—it’s thousands of eggs gone.”

Pepe rests his hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “I appreciate your passion, man. We’ll take care of it. I promise.” He gives us a stern look. “But
you
have to promise to keep off the beach, stay safe.”

Wendell looks at me. “I can’t promise that, Pepe.”

“What?” Pepe’s obviously not used to people disagreeing with him.

“Sorry,” Wendell says, “but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect the turtles.”

“Me too,” I add in a gesture of solidarity. “Playa Mermejita—it’s like my backyard. This is my home now. My responsibility.”

Early the next evening, I’m trudging down the path to the cabanas, laden with bags of chile and cheese and eggs from the market. I’m planning on trying out
chiles rellenos
for dinner. But Layla isn’t in the kitchen. She’s supposed to be making cream of squash soup, but the squashes are sitting on the counter, abandoned. I glance at the clock. Nearly six. We have to get cooking soon.

On the way to Layla’s cabana, I pass Linda from Venezuela in her black bikini and straw hat. “Hey, have you seen Layla?” I ask.

“There she is,” Linda says, gesturing toward the beach. “Building a sand castle.”

A sand castle? I breathe out in exasperation. “Thanks.”

I jog toward the beach, not sure what to make of this.

Sure enough, there she is with Joe, kneeling in the sand. The sun is low on the horizon, the water silvery. The last rays of sunlight illuminate a moat around a lopsided castle. What’s she doing playing around when we have fifteen guests to feed in an hour?

Annoyed, I storm up to her. “Having fun?”

Her hair covers her face like a golden curtain.

“Did you think dinner would make itself, Layla?”

“Stay playfully childish,”
she says, quoting Rumi in a shaky voice.
“Your face will turn rosy with illumination like the redbud flowers.”

Joe pats her on the shoulder, then quietly offers to juggle shells. When she shakes her head, he murmurs that none of this matters anyway because we’re all doomed.

Words of comfort? I pull back her hair. She’s crying. I should have realized something was wrong. When the going gets tough, Layla builds sand castles. My voice softens. “Hey, what’s wrong, Layla?”

She looks at me, her hands covered with wet sand. “The real estate agent sent me an email.”

My muscles tense. “And?”

“The owners decided to give this land to their son. They’re not renting it to be managed anymore.”

“What?” I sputter. “If you’d done the contract on day one, this never would’ve happened!”

“I know, love. I’m sorry. I just haven’t gotten around to it, I’ve been so busy.”

I explode. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted some excuse to move on to the next country, right?”

“Of course not, Z!” Layla shakes her head, and then dissolves into sobs. “I love it here. It’s our home.”

I study her face. She looks truly miserable. “Really, Layla? What about the new countries you’ve added to the List?”

“They’re places to visit, love. For vacations.” She cups her hand to my cheek. “I promised you. And if I could make it happen, we’d stay in Mazunte for good. But now we have to leave.”

“Leave? We could find a property nearby—”

“There’s nothing, Z. I’ve looked. No English-teaching jobs either.” She wipes her eyes and starts with more Rumi.
“Don’t let your throat tighten with fear. Take sips of breath—”

“Layla,” I say firmly. “Have you talked with the owners?
I mean, you had a verbal agreement. Maybe we can convince them to honor it.”

She shakes her head. “Apparently, the owner’s son has been asking for the land for years. For whatever reason, they decided now’s the time to give it to him.”

I consider this. If we leave, where would Wendell go? And what if I never connect with my father? What if he’s somewhere in this town? What if he needs me to draw him out? What if he’s on the verge of showing himself? My mind sifts through all the possibilities.

“I’m going to talk with the owners,” I say, my voice hard. To make Layla feel on board with my plan, I add, “Give me some of your amulets, Layla. And a bunch of pink from your heart chakra.”

“Oh, love …,” she sighs, pulling me close.

“We’re meant to be here, Layla. It’s perfect. And I’m not letting a ridiculous curse or flaky owners mess it up.”

Layla gives me a weak smile, brushes the sand from her hands. “Ready to make dinner?”

We walk back through the jungle, my arm around her shoulder, Joe the clown at our heels.

“Let’s go in person,” I suggest. “That’s our best hope. A personal plea.”

Layla squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll email the agent to let the owners know we’re coming. And get their address.”

Barely holding back tears, I whisper, “I’ve finally found home.” I look over her shoulder at the sun, glowing orange through the trees, dropping behind Punta Cometa. With
new resolve, I whisper, “There’s no way I’m letting it go without a fight.”

The next morning, I wake to a steady drizzle and faint watery-gray light through the window. It must be before dawn. Layla hasn’t made her rounds with the bell for sunrise yoga yet. I’m about to close my eyes again when I hear a noise outside my door. I try to ignore it, but there it is again. I untangle myself from the mosquito net, and in my bare feet, I pad across the floor and peek out the window. A wet raccoon is pawing at something on my front stoop.

I open the door, which sends the animal scurrying. Then I look down. There’s a pile of bloody bones encircled with sharp stones, sticks, broken chicken eggs. Flies buzz like crazy around it.

Another curse.

After a wave of disgust, rage fills me. This is the last thing I need today. I’m already anxious about our visit to the landowners. And this curse—even though I don’t believe in this stuff—it reeks of a bad omen.

“Layla!” I call out, noting that her front stoop also holds a fly-infested mess. “Who’s on curse cleanup duty this morning?”

She comes out, frowning and shaking her head.

On the other side of my hut, Wendell pokes his head from his doorway. Not surprisingly, his front stoop also holds curse remnants under a swarm of flies. He wrinkles his nose. “Gross,” he groans. “Not again.”

“Hey!” Layla says. “There’s a note here.”

Wendell and I head over to Layla’s hut while she runs to the shed and returns with the rubber gloves. She plucks the note from under a stone and unfolds it, fumbling.

It’s written in block letters on notebook paper.
LÁRGUENSE DE AQUÍ … SINO SE QUIEREN MORIR
.

Silently, I take in the meaning. “Get out of here … if you don’t want to die.” For a moment, my heart freezes. Then anger surges through me. “Layla,” I say, “come on, let’s clean it up. Get out the incense and amulets.”

“I don’t know, love.” Layla looks at me gravely. “The owners want us to leave, and whoever’s leaving these curses wants us to leave … maybe we’re not supposed to be here.” A tear snakes from the corner of her eye. “Maybe we should go with the flow, stop resisting, just leave.”

“No!” The force of my voice surprises me. “This is our home. And this job, Layla—it’s perfect for you. And Wendell—you’re a natural with the turtles.”

“But who’s doing this?” Layla whispers.

I glance at Wendell, remembering his poacher theory.

Slowly, he says, “This curse happened soon after we saw the poaching. So did the last curse, right?”

“But,” I point out, “the poachers didn’t know we saw them.”

Wendell chews on a thumbnail. “They might’ve figured it out once they saw the cops investigating.”

“Well.” Layla draws in a breath. “For the moment, there’s nothing to do but clean up this mess, right? Wendell, get the
buckets and trash bags and cleaning stuff. Zeeta, help me with the amulets and incense.”

As we gather the materials and dispose of the curse remnants, Layla regains her spark. And as the guests trickle out of their cabanas and offer to help, Layla grows even more energized. Soon she’s quoting Rumi with happy abandon, humming as she works. I take in the rain plastering her blond hair to her face, her dripping-wet huipil, her cheeriness in the face of this thoroughly unsavory task.

As I light some incense, a laugh escapes my mouth.

Layla grins at me and says in a Rumi-soaked voice,
“You laugh like the sun coming up laughs at a star that disappears into it.”

“Hey, let’s go talk to the owners now, Layla.”

“I should really stay and finish cleaning up, love.”

I glance over at Wendell, who’s hosing off the paths. He’ll need to make coffee and breakfast for the guests. I hesitate. Do I want to face the owners alone? Maybe it would be best this way. I can devise a strategy, stick with it. “I’ll go by myself,” I say finally.

“You’ll do great!” she assures me. She disappears into her cabana and comes out with a scrap of paper. “Here’s the address. It’s not a long walk.”

The paper reads José and Guadalupe, Camino del Mar #22 in Layla’s swirling scrawl. That’s our street. The number is higher, so it must be farther along, toward Playa Mermejita, near Lupita’s. Hopefully, that grouchy firewood vendor isn’t one of the owners.

In the increasingly heavy downpour, I walk up the hill, my palms sweaty even though it’s cool. Clutching by bag, I pass the dirt driveways and their crooked wooden signs, follow the rising numbers. A few dogs bark halfheartedly as I pass, and one follows me for a while, until he stops, looking bored. The flowers and leaves hanging over the road glisten, their colors more vibrant in the rain.

I’m shivering by the time I reach number twenty. Maybe the owners are Lupita’s neighbors. Maybe she can help me convince them. And then I reach it, number twenty-two. But here’s the sign about
mole
for sale on Sundays, and here’s the bougainvillea. I pause, confused.

Then I realize: number twenty-two
is
Doña Lupita’s house. And a split second later, I remember that Lupita is a nickname for Guadalupe. And chances are her husband, Rogelio’s, first name is José, like most other men here.

I stand still, stunned, as rain drips down my cheeks, clings to my eyelashes. Finally, I take a deep breath, cross my goose-bumped arms, and walk forward.

The gate is closed, padlocked. The birds sound more subdued today, only occasionally calling out. The courtyard looks sad and empty without sunshine, without tea bubbling over the fire pit, without Lupita’s cheery presence bringing it to life. My finger shaking, I ring the buzzer.

“¿Quién es?”
Lupita’s voice calls.

“Me, Zeeta!” I shout.

“Zeeta!” Her voice rings out, full of delight. She appears through the leaves with a ring of clinking keys. “Zeeta!” she
says again, beaming. “How good to see you! Come in! I’m expecting some people to stop by soon. Business stuff. But you and I can still chat for a bit.” She ushers me inside. “Oh, you’re soaking wet!” She takes off her shawl and wraps it around my shoulders. Clucking about how I’ll catch cold, she leads me into the kitchen hut.

I set down my bag. I’m shivering more now, and I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet, letting her fill the space with her chatter. “Sit, sit,
mija
!” She bustles about, heating water for tea on the stove. She pulls a handful of fresh chamomile from a basket and tosses the blossoms into the water.