Ширли Мерфи - The Grass Tower

When she woke to darkness at four, she did not remember her uneasiness but was just terribly excited, hurrying to shower and dress, remembering to put her toothbrush in her packed bag, sitting sleepily in the car between Justin and Grandfather; then waiting at the airport with butterflies in her stomach, and finally kissing Justin good-by, then, twenty minutes out of San Francisco, tucking into a huge breakfast, the sun hitting her in the face as she attacked her sausage and waffles.

It was an all day flight. Bethany expected she would see the continent slipping away below her—Los Angeles, San Diego, Mexico—but that was not the case. They were far too high and the clouds too heavy below them; Mexico slipped past underneath with no more than a glimpse, and it was not until they came down over Guatemala, preparing for a landing, that she saw the lush green of the jungle they had been flying over for hours. “As wild and unbroken by cities and highways, or nearly so, as it was when the Spanish first saw it,” Grandfather said. “Only they never saw it like this, from the sky. They could only see the little bit they touched with their ships, and set foot on. Still, they conquered and raped it well enough, for all that.”

“For gold,” Bethany said, thinking of the eagle. “There must have been tons of gold, all in little idols and pendants and sacrificial cups and things down in the jungles.” She remembered the golden garden, and they talked about that.

“It was such an easy metal to work,” Grandfather said. “It took no sophisticated tools, and the people loved its color, like the sun. They thought that it was kin to the sun, and they made sun idols, great plaques like the sun to catch its rays.

“Your golden eagle is worth many thousands of dollars. I don’t know what effect the added inscriptions would have on its value, but I shouldn’t think too much. Teodoro must have been a very flamboyant young man, to think of making such a gift to his two babies. Though perhaps a very practical one, after all. I was a hard-headed fellow, Bethany, to hurt Kathleen—to hurt your mother as I did. I have regretted my handling of the situation all of my life since.”

“But they must have been happy, Grandfather, that short time.”

“Yes, but Kathleen would have been happier still if she had had my blessing and not had to marry secretly, and keep that part of her life hidden. And if she had come home to have her babies, perhaps—” He shook his head, as if to drive the thought away. “I have wondered what Marjory thought, putting the eagle in the box like that. Could she have meant to give it to you later on, and to tell you the whole story? And to tell me? It’s almost as if she left the whole matter to chance. That would be like Marjory: if you discovered it, she would tell you, and if you didn’t, she would wait until you were grown, perhaps. I must think that she didn’t tell me at once because she felt I was still too—that Kathleen’s death was still too mixed up with her defiance of me and with my disapproval of Teodoro, so that perhaps I wouldn’t want you. But not want my own grandchild?

“And then I suppose later she couldn’t bear to give you up. And even she didn’t know the whole story, knew nothing of Ninea.”

“And the eagle was there all the time. Why didn’t I find the secret compartment for myself, by accident? How could I not have? Ninea did.”

“I suppose because you just never pushed the right place. But what if you had? Would you ever have thought to ferret out your name among that tangle of lines if you hadn’t had some reason to be looking with more curious eyes? Still, you most likely would have found out what the eagle was and where it came from, and that would certainly have led, at some time, to a discussion of Kathleen visiting Panama.” Their eyes met. Would the truth have come out anyway, without Selma’s church to start it off?

“But it was Ninea,” Bethany said. “Even without the seances, she knew; she said she dreamed of me. She could—she is very strong, Grandfather.”

“There are different kinds of strength, though.” “And she knew about the eagle, she knew it had some special meaning or her grandmother—our grandmother—wouldn’t have hidden it otherwise.” “Are you nervous at meeting her, Bethany?” “Yes. Oh yes, Grandfather, I’m like Jello.” The landing at Guatemala had been brief, and now the sky cleared so they could see the great jungles of Honduras and Nicaragua lying below them, but Costa Rica was hidden under a heavy gray smear of smoke and ash from its sputtering volcano. They had a leisurely dinner, and were just finishing dessert when the plane began to drop into Panama. The tropical heat, even at seven at night, hit Bethany like a great weight when she walked off the plane. Cowed under the heat, she waited patiently in the customs line with Grandfather, saw her suitcase opened and intimately inspected, then turned from the customs gate—

She had thought that first meeting might be as shocking and terrifying as Ninea’s dark appearances in the Church of the Zagdesha. Might be like walking toward a full length mirror to suddenly find that the reflection approaching you had come alive and stepped out of the glass. She stood facing Ninea now and she didn’t know what she thought: like a mirror, yes. As if you could touch yourself. They were both frightened. And fascinated. They stood staring while Senora Ruiz made little cordial noises to Grandfather and welcomed Bethany. Grandfather took Senora Ruiz’s arm and engaged her—that was the only word Bethany could think of—freeing the two of them.

They stood staring, not knowing whether to bristle or throw their arms around each other. To see yourself in someone else—it was a strange and unsettling experience. Bethany walked around Ninea once, looking at her from the back where you can never see yourself, saw herself from the back, her legs, her profile; and Ninea walked around Bethany once. They could have been two dogs circling to fight. And then they stood staring again, and it was as if something in your own self, the part you don’t always like had suddenly come alive and stood facing you. There seemed nothing they could do but stand locked in an attitude almost like defiance. And then a big swarthy boy ran past, jostling Ninea roughly, and she turned and kicked at his shin so he tripped, furious, then hobbled on; Ninea whirled back to face Bethany, her eyes sparkling with deviltry, and all of a sudden they were laughing, shouting, swinging each other around in the airport with people staring at them. And it was all right. It was all right.

They took hands finally and followed Grandfather and Senora Ruiz through the huge echoing terminal, and Bethany recognized its ugly proportions because Ninea knew them; Bethany knew the places they passed in the car in more detail through Ninea’s thoughts than she could ever see in the darkness, knew what the shops were like inside, what they sold, knew how they smelled—incense and cedar and perfume—knew where narrow alleys crept behind the buildings. But when they stood at last in the Ruiz house, the tall living room seemed to Bethany very strange and quiet, for before when she had stood here it had been overflowing with people and with talk.

Senora Ruiz, so self possessed and correctly cordial —not quite cool, but then not terribly warm either, seemed to feel no shock or discomfort at Bethany’s presence, this duplicate of Ninea so suddenly thrust upon her. Yet she should feel it, Bethany thought. She should be uncomfortable with me; she should be making little unnecessary comments about how alike we are. But then, how could she? It was she who caused us not to know each other; it would be stupid for her to gush. Still, it’s going to be a very strange ten days, Bethany decided. And if there’s any trouble, if Ninea and I can’t get along, then Grandfather might not be able to persuade Senora Ruiz to let us take Ninea home.