Now Is the Time to Open Your Heart_ A Novel - Alice Walker [22]
I’m sorry, said the man, I thought you was a bradda.
I am, actually, said Yolo.
There was silence. The man looked toward the hotel, considered something for a moment. Turned back to Yolo and said, If you don’t mind. I’m very sorry. But I need to ask you to do something. It will take only a little while. I have to go home and get something and I need to ask you to stay with something I need to leave protected on the beach.
Oh shit, thought Yolo.
Are you a fisherman? he asked.
Yes, said the man. I was fishing.
Yolo thought of being asked to guard a boatload of marijuana. He wanted to say no. He wanted to explain about his vacation. How much he needed one. How much he deserved one. He’d painted furiously all year and had made just enough to pay his bills, keep the heat going, and have this vacation!
On the other hand, he was trying to have a vacation where someone else was working. He thought: What would she do? He stepped back a bit from the man. Looked him up and down. He noticed his eyes were sad and a bit bloodshot. His hair blown every which way. Still, it was what his father would call “a good face.” Nothing menacing or malignant seemed to have ever inhabited it. He hadn’t missed any meals in his life either, which said something about his stability.
Let’s go, he said.
Down the beach they walked, the big man, who said his name was Jerry SomethingVeryComplicated, (Izkamakawiwo’ole!), leading the way. The beach was longer than it looked from where he’d lain in his incredibly comfy beach lounger. There was a narrow, shallow river emptying into the ocean that they needed to cross. On the other side of the river there were no chairs, no umbrellas. The place seemed still wild.
This part of the beach for da locals, said Jerry, as if to explain.
Does that mean you can’t go to the beach on the hotel side? asked Yolo.
Who can afford it? said Jerry, shrugging.
The beach made a curious turn to the left, around some black, deeply pitted lava rocks. Out of sight of the hotel there was anchored a small, battered fishing boat. They walked toward it. As they came closer to it and because he was looking at the boat and not at the ground, Yolo almost stumbled over a young man lying on the sand. He seemed so peaceful, napping there in the sun, that Yolo could not believe he was dead.
The shock on his face must have been apparent.
He dead, bradda, yeah, said Jerry.
The Curious Thing
The curious thing about the grandmother medicine was that people would take it, even though it tasted ghastly. Even more curious was that it continued to taste horrible, in fact more and more horrible the longer you took it. By now Kate could feel the muscles of her throat contract just thinking about it. If she actually saw it in the shaman’s bottle, she wanted to vomit. Armando laughed at them each time he called them to circle. They all came looking pitiful, he teased them, like goats going to the butcher. He pretended to be unmoved by the disgusting flavor of the medicine, and drank some each time they journeyed. Tonight Kate sat facing the river, which splashed lazily down below their palapa.
She was feeling weak from the continuous internal cleansing of the day before. Everyone else also seemed pale and less than steady on their feet. It was extremely hot; even so, because of parasites living in the sand and poisonous snakes and who knows what all, they were required to wear tall rubber boots most of the time. Entering the large ceremonial palapa they removed their boots and left them outside. Everyone stretched their bodies, settling into their respective seats, and wriggled and massaged their toes.
When it was her turn to take the medicine, she asked, as she always did, for help for the humans of the planet and for the coming generations and for the animals and plants and rocks. She asked that she be guided to knowledge of how to act in the world for the highest good of all. She asked that the medicine accept