Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

“Well, I guess you’ve really learned something about the way other people live, Nicki,” Pastor Ron said to her—so mildly I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not.

“Which I bet she’ll forget the minute she gets to CPK,” Jim Nolan muttered into his Coke.

“CPK!” said Nicki, sighing deeply. That’s California Pizza Kitchen to you—the central place to hang in Spencer’s Grove. “Don’t even mention CPK until I’m actually holding a roasted artichoke and spinach slice in my perfectly manicured fingers!”

“I rest my case,” Jim said, rolling his eyes.

“What’s the one thing you’ve missed most?” Pastor Ron asked us. I think he was trying to start a friendlier conversation— you know, trying to keep Jim and Nicki from getting into some kind of brawl.

“What do I miss? I miss civilization,” said Nicki immediately. “Which I define as any place where people have more than one change of clothes.”

“For crying out loud—” Jim started to say.

I cut him off, saying, “I miss my Xbox. I was right in the middle of the new Gears of War when we left. And my mom wouldn’t let me bring my Zune. She said it was ‘inappropriate.’ What does that even mean?”

“I have to admit, I do kind of miss a working cell phone,” said Pastor Ron wistfully.

“My cell phone! Puleeze! The first thing I’m going to do when we get to Santa Maria is call every single human being I’ve ever met,” Nicki cried.

“What about you, Meredith?” Rob asked.

And we all turned to her—because everyone always did that when she talked. Everyone always listened to whatever she had to say.

Meredith smiled. “That bath Nicki mentioned—that did sound good.”

“Jim?” asked Pastor Ron.

Everyone turned to him. And you just knew— knew — he wasn’t going to say anything that might make it sound like home was a good place. He shrugged. Knocked back his Coke so that the ice rattled. “I miss my books, I guess,” he said, as if the whole idea bored him.

“Amigos, amigos!” This was Carlos, the waiter. He had come to our table and was standing over us, one hand resting on Pastor Ron’s shoulder and another on Meredith’s. “We are all very sorry to see you go.” He then rattled off something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. I guess it was something flattering about the girls because Meredith smiled up at him and murmured, “You’re too kind, señor.”

Well, that was all the encouragement Carlos needed. He started rattling away again and though I couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, I could tell it was something flowery and complimentary because first Meredith laughed and then Nicki rolled her eyes and said, “This dude is such a player!”

Carlos smiled at her and then wagged his finger at me. “You are paying attention, señor, yes? Now you learn: this is how you talk to the ladies so you will always have many beautiful girlfriends.”

“Thanks for the pointers,” I told him.

He winked at me.

Finally, giving Pastor Ron and Meredith each a friendly pat on the shoulder, Carlos asked, “Well… can I get you more drinks?”

“I don’t think so, Carlos, gracias,” said Pastor Ron. “Our driver should be here any minute.”

“Well then, my friends, I will only tell you: go with God, yes?” And with that, Carlos wandered off to another table.

“All right,” I said. “Now someone has to explain to me what he was saying. So I can learn how to talk to the ladies and have many beautiful girlfriends.”

Nicki said, “If you talk to the ladies like that, you’ll end up with many beautiful fat lips, believe me.”

“Oh, now, I thought he was very chivalrous,” said Meredith with a laugh.

“Chivalrous—that’s a good thing, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Meredith.

“Whatever,” said Nicki. “Play-uh.”

Then, with a sudden bang, the cantina door swung open—and Palmer Dunn walked in.

That’s one more person I have to tell you about: Palmer. I didn’t like Palmer very much. I don’t think anyone did, not in our group, anyway. He was our driver—and our pilot. A week ago, he had flown us here from Santa Maria. It was a terrifying flight, all of us crammed into his tiny Cessna, thunderstorms tossing us around every five minutes. Then the landing: bouncing down onto an airfield that was nothing more than a strip of packed dirt on a flat plain of grass. And afterward, more sickening bumps as he drove us in his black van over jungle roads here to Santiago. Now he was here again to drive us to his plane and fly us back to the capital. I don’t think anyone was much looking forward to the trip.

I’m not sure exactly what it was about the guy that bugged me so much. There was just something dark about him. He was an American, like us—older, but still young—maybe twenty-five. Tall and lean and muscular in his jeans and black T-shirt. He had sandy hair and a day’s growth of stubble on a rough-looking serious face—serious, that is, except for his eyes. He had pale green eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you, laughing at everyone.

But let me try to clarify what it was about him that I didn’t like. I didn’t like the way he talked to us, quiet and droll and mocking, as if we were too stupid to be worth his time. I didn’t like the way he looked at Meredith and Nicki when he first saw them, his eyes going up and down them slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. I didn’t like the way he snorted laughter at Jim when the bumpy plane ride turned his face a sickly green. I didn’t like the way he swaggered when he walked, his whole air of arrogance. And, maybe more than anything, I didn’t like the fact that he frightened me. He was tough. You could tell just by looking at him. And I knew if we ever got into any kind of a fight, he would be able to pound me into the ground without even getting out of breath.

Just look at the way he was when he walked into the cantina. He glanced over at us in our corner and lifted his chin—just a little, almost imperceptibly, at Pastor Ron—just to let us know that he saw us, that he knew we were there. Didn’t say hello. Didn’t come over to talk. Just lifted his chin and then walked right by us to the bar.

Pastor Ron called after him in a friendly voice as he passed by. “Would you care to join us for a Coke, Palmer?”

Palmer didn’t even answer him. Not a word. He stood at the bar. There was an old lady behind it, serving drinks. She came over to him.

“Cerveza,” Palmer said. A beer .

Pastor Ron was twisted around in his chair, still looking at Palmer as if he expected an answer to his invitation. I could tell he wasn’t happy with the way Palmer ignored him. He went on watching as the old woman set a bottle of beer on the bar in front of Palmer.

“I hope you’re not going to have too many of those before you pilot your plane,” said Pastor Ron—still trying to sound more friendly than concerned.

Palmer’s only answer: he turned to us, lifted the beer bottle in a sort of toast, watching us with his mocking eyes. Then he knocked back a slug and turned back to the bar, raising his gaze to watch the soccer game on the TV while he drank.

Pastor Ron sat twisted around in his chair another moment, as if still hoping for a better answer. Then, finally, he turned back to us. I could tell he was put out and embarrassed by the way Palmer treated him.

“Considering how rough the plane ride over was, I can’t help thinking a drunken pilot won’t help much,” he said.

“No kidding,” said Jim—and I could tell he was really worried about it.

“If he kills us before I get my bath, I will never speak to him again,” said Nicki. “Ever.”