Page 44 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #7

me,” Heather whispers, stage volume, clearly delighted to be entrusted with such secrets. Her cheeks flush with this shiny bead of knowledge in her dull, soil world.
Barely a scrap of meat on them, but the sauce
was so good, you’d suck them anyway. With her blue-veined skin, Cathy looks like she hasn’t eaten meat for years.
But Peter’s declaration comes as no surprise–I’ve seen the way he looks at Carlos, our carefree driver with wide brown eyes and a deep scar that dances around the crease of his eye socket. Peter’s always first to pick out Carlos’s poblano above the other heads in a crowd, to follow the tight crack
“I’ll try the guacamole. My stomach’s not so strong. I have to take care with it.”
of his jeans up the concrete steps of the jungle garden. “I know I can trust you, Heather. We Brits must stick together.”
That’s what Mom always said, anyhow. I swear, she’d have washed us in lime juice given half a chance. It should be me taking care of her now – she was weak as a baby bird the last time I saw her. There wasn’t even time to say goodbye. Now here I am, eating street food with this strange huddle on a hillside in Mexico, and is she even alive? Daniel Windslake: you have sinned.
It’s a coach trip, Peter–you’ll probably muddle through alone. But she’s lapping it up, Roger too. Peter’s slippery as an eel: all things for all people. I need to keep my eye on him.
“Where you from, Sally-Ann? Sometimes you have the look of someone on the run.”
Cathy is still waiting. I’ve not given her enough yet.
She’s smart, Cathy. I need to watch her too.
“I’ve seen pictures of the garden before, of course, but they can’t quite convey the way the shapes leap out at you from the forest. The sheer size
of it all. A temple to Surrealism, dropped into
“You talking about these clothes? Sure, I can see why you’d think so.”
the forest like something alien.” I need to stop. Shouldn’t have started. But I was an art history major at Carroll College, many years ago. There
is something in the haunting desolation of the place–stray sunlight winking through a concrete philodendron, the sheer hubris of such a folly. And I’ve waited so long.
They’d given me a bag when they dropped me off at the border. Those agents might be good at some stuff, but shopping isn’t their forte–looked like a blind man had been let loose in a ten-dollar mall. Some of the dresses are so static, my hair’s up like a startled bobcat before I’ve taken a step. One spark from that grill and I’d go up like the Burning Bush. Oh, the Church would love that. A fitting end for the whistle-blower, chargrilled by her FBI-crafted disguise.
“You sound like you know a thing or two about art?”
See? You’d think I’d have learned to keep my mouth shut by now.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean...”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Seen a few documentaries, is all. Can I pass you something, Cathy? These meatballs are real good.”
“S’ok. I had to pack in a hurry. I only got the de- tails for the tour last minute. Found the brochure down the side of an old tram seat in Tampico, and I was here two days later. Everything needed laundering, and there was no time–you know what it’s like.”
Cathy needs to eat, that’s for sure. Her clavicles are sticking through that Dodgers t-shirt like chicken wings. Scrawny ones at that, like the ones
we used to pick up from the shack outside Polson. 35
“You’ll be all right with the guacamole, Cathy. Full of lime juice. Keeps the bugs away.”