Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [9]
Pedro watches until the boat disappears from view, shaking his head. Leo is his younger brother and Pedro worries about him. I could tell him they’ll be fine, but that’s no sure thing. It’s around two hundred miles from here to Cuba, a long haul in open water for a boat like that. And they don’t bring that AK along just for the sharks. Anyway, nothing I can do about it. I push away from the bar.
—Hasta mañana, Pedro.
—Hasta.
And I head off to take my swim.
I LIFT my arms out of the water in a slow backstroke, then roll myself over and start to swim in earnest. I swim long and hard, making sure to look up at the girls’ fire on the beach from time to time so I don’t end up bobbing halfway to Cozumel. When I’m good and tired, I swim in to shore. I can see that the girls are passing around a couple bottles of something and I think I can smell a little hash on the breeze.
Back at the bungalow, Gram Parsons is just starting in on “Hickory Wind.” I peel off my shorts, drape them over the porch rail, grab the towel I left there, wipe most of the sand from my feet and lower legs. Inside, I pull on a pair of cutoff jeans. The music ends and I throw in some Bill Withers. I grab a bottle of water, my book and a lantern, and go back out on the porch. The smiling Spanish girl is standing there in the sand at the foot of the steps, holding an empty two-liter jug.
It takes a couple minutes to fill the jug from my water tank. Through the open door, I can see her reclining sideways in the hammock, her feet dangling over the edge. I should put on a shirt, I should put on a shirt before I go back out there. But I don’t. I bring out the filled jug, set it at her feet on the porch, and sit down on the chair.
—Gracias.
—De nada.
She plays with the jug with her toes, tilting it this way and that, daring it to fall over. I pump up the lantern, light it, and turn it very low. The waves slap lightly and the lantern hisses. Her hair shines black. She’s wearing shorts and has a small scarf tied around her chest. No tan lines on her shoulders. The jug falls over. I lean out of my chair and right it before more than a cup can glug out. She giggles, points at one of my many tattoos, the one on the inside of my left forearm. Six thick, black hash marks. She asks something I don’t understand.
—No comprende.
She asks again.
—Sorry, my Spanish, not very good.
Turns out her English is great.
—American. We thought you were Costa Rican.
—No.
—Yes, because, the color is right. With the German blood, you know? And also your accent, your Spanish, is somewhat like that, and you do not act American.
—Thank God for that.
—Si, gracias a Dios.
She laughs.
—But we like Americans also, but here they are always so drunk.
—I don’t drink.
Her toe grazes the jug.
—Except the water.
—I like the water.
—And you smoke.
—Do you want one?
—No.
She rocks in the hammock.
—Do you want to smoke with us? With me?
She takes a small baggie out of her pocket and shows it to me. I can see papers, a little chunk of hash, a tobacco pouch. I haven’t been high in months, but it’s not like the booze. There’s no rule . . .
—Sure.
She smiles, and wobbles around in the hammock getting herself balanced cross-legged.
—Something flat?
I toss her my book. She looks at the title before putting it in her lap.
—Steinbeck. I read for school, The Grapes of Wrath, about American farm laborers and the Great Depression.
—Good book.
—I liked it.
She takes a rolling paper from the bag and sprinkles tobacco into it. I shift uncomfortably on my chair. Watching a pretty girl roll a smoke. Something inside me shakes its head.
—Before, I asked about the tattoo. The lines. What are they for?
The tobacco is spread evenly and she starts to grate hash over it, tiny flecks falling into the European-style joint. There are things I don’t like to remember, things I mostly forget.
—They