Red Weather

6. Dauphin Island

26 6 DauphinIsland “Yes?” Deb asked, when Neva came back downstairs. “Yes,” Neva nodded. “I’ll bring my stuff over in the morning, if that’s okay.” “Or you could just stay,” Deb said. “You could meet some people tonight.” She turned to face Neva. A little tomato sauce clung to a lock of her short, light brown hair. “And then you can go up whenever you want to. That room is really quiet.” The pot on the stove popped, spattering red sauce. “Don’t be put off by the mess. I know this looks terrible, but I’m really a good cook.” Neva tried to smile, to say something back, something teasing, friendly, but her face felt stiff and out of practice. “I’ll put this ragout on the back burner. We’ll borrow Jamie’s car and go get your stuff. Watch this and I’ll run up and ask him.” Neva poked the contents of the skillet with a wooden spoon. She smelled oregano, a slight sweetness, a little vinegar. A month, nearly two, since she’d cooked anything, since she’d stood over a stove. Deb came down the stairs with a slight, dark-haired man behind her. “Jamie says he’ll drive you, Neva.” “Oh no,” she said. Already it was beginning, taking from people and owing them later. “I don’t want to put you out.” “My dear.” Jamie took her elbow and guided her toward the door. “I would like nothing better than to sit in the Mirador Café and drink coffee. You may take your time packing up.” “He means it, Neva,” Deb called from the kitchen. “I’ll hurry,” she said, as she left Jamie sitting at a table in the breezeway outside the Mirador. He waved a cigarette at her. “Take your time,” he said, his eyes intent on the plaza, where children carried bundles of belts and purses, handstitched in the lavish Coatepequen style of red and blue satin thread. A few university students stood in a cluster, 27 arguing and gesturing. A man in a tractor pulled a small train around and around the square. The five carts behind it were filled with children. Parents waved at their children as the train chugged by. “Okay,” she said. She didn’t have much—what was left from the bags she’d packed before heading out of town: clothes, a few books, a picture of her and her brother taken once when Harker came to Alabama, on vacation from college in Wisconsin. A blouse she’d bought at the first stop across the border. The four postcards. Those were wrapped in plastic, tucked carefully in a stiff cardboard envelope. No, not much. Packing wouldn’t take long, and she could sit on the bed for a few minutes, take a last look at the Mirador Room with its startling view of the city. She would miss it, the view, the dark, silty coffee. Her room, the most. It was the only space she’d ever felt was entirely hers. If it didn’t work out—at the new house—she could always come back here. She wouldn’t always be broke, not if she started teaching next week. What she’d heard about teaching had been right—everybody wanted to learn English. But cheap as the hotel was, she couldn’t stay here much longer. “Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Jamie said when she reappeared. He eyed her one bag. “You’ve redefined traveling light.” “Well, I started with more,” Neva said. She hovered, ready to go, but Jamie motioned her into the chair opposite. “We have plenty of time before dinner,” he said. “And you look like a woman with a story.” Neva laughed. “Do you know women without stories?” He toasted her silently with his coffee cup. “Your secret is safe with me.” She pushed a smile onto her face. “There really is no secret.” “Everybody in Coatepeque has a secret,” he said. “What about that little girl?” Neva asked, pointing to one of the children in the toy train. “Her secret is that she just picked her nose and wiped it on her little sister’s dress,” he said. “Not really,” Neva said. “Really, I swear.” He doubled over laughing, and Neva joined him, laughing until she was teary-eyed. The first time in a month. When they stopped, she said, “I’ve been trying to learn Spanish. I heard you could get work teaching English here...