Patricia Engel - The Veins of the Ocean

He’d be a free man again even if he might not be free in this country. By committing his crime, Carlito risked being denaturalized and potentially deported, forced onto a flight back to Colombia, which wasn’t so bad since Carlito’s plan had always been to go back to Cartagena anyway — make enough money in Miami to buy a condo facing the beaches of Bocagrande, eat in restaurants where the ricos ate — and Mami and I could join him, he said, and he’d make sure we lived like queens.

Sometimes we’d fantasize together about what he’d do when he got out of prison because it was better than talking about what he’d request for his last meal or what he’d say in his final statement before being locked into the death chamber.

“If I ever get out,” he’d say, “the first thing I’ll do is go home, chop down that fucking tree in the front yard, and set the house on fire. Then I’ll go to a restaurant and order myself a cold beer and a big, bloody steak.”

Other times I’d ask the same question and he’d just shrug.

“Maybe it’s better if they keep me here. I have no money, and they don’t give you a pension for completing your prison time. There’s nothing for me on the outside anymore. I’ll have nowhere to live. They’ll stick me in a halfway house with a bunch of lunatics.”

“You’ll live with me.”

“Nobody will give me a job. People treat parolees worse than shit under their shoes. How is a man expected to turn his life around under those conditions?”

“I’ll help you, Carlito. And you’re so smart, anyone with a brain would know they should hire you.”

“To do what? Clean toilets? Or to pick avocados twelve hours a day at some farm in Homestead?”

“Whatever it is, it’s just a beginning.”

I reminded him of all the people we’d see around, so often it was like we didn’t see them at all: ladies selling fruit at intersections, guys who came knocking at the door offering to pull weeds for a few bucks.

“There’s no shame in any work,” I told Carlito. “Those people don’t have education to fall back on like you do, and they probably get even dirtier looks than murderers when they go out looking for work.”

“I’m not a murderer, Reina,” was all he’d answer, and I’d feel like a failure because, as usual, I’d managed to hurt him.

“I’ll take care of you,” I tried again. “Just like you always took care of me. I promise.”

But Carlito didn’t want to listen to me anymore. His eyes were already darting around the room, the way they often did when we were near the end of our visiting time.

Dr. Joe once told me that one of the effects he’d observed in his subjects in solitary confinement was concentration problems, due, he suspected, to the lack of stimulation.

Carlito would start looking past me, as if cracks in the prison walls held some code, and I knew I’d lost him for the day.

We’d sit together in silence for the remainder of our hour together until the guard led him away.

Mo informs me the consensus among the vets and techs is that the new dolphin, who they’re now calling Zoe, has psychological problems. They say she might even have brain damage or trauma that’s left her unable to tend to basic needs like feeding herself.

“Maybe she’s just depressed,” I say.

“Depressed? This place is paradise for dolphins.”

We’re looking over the dock as Rachel stands in the pen, which is shallower than the others, no deeper than a swimming pool, and tries feeding the dolphin some fish, but she won’t take it. I know they’ve had to supplement with force-feedings through a tube. The dolphin still refuses to leave the fence. She’s worn the front of her head with the lines of the metal chain links, and turns away from Rachel whenever she approaches. Instead of just roping the area apart from the other pens, Mo had Nesto erect a huge curtain rod to wall it completely out of sight of the park visitors.

I’m technically off today but came in to work because I wanted to see how the new girl is doing. Weeks have passed since her arrival and everyone is getting impatient. Rachel is still trying all sorts of things to catch the dolphin’s interest. Inflatable toys, hoops, mirrors — the 99-cent store stuff the staff members call enrichment tools . They’ve even brought in Coco, a gentle, older female from one of the adjacent pens, but the new girl isn’t interested so they’ve separated them. They need the new dolphin to bond with Rachel, I am told. They need her to understand that Rachel is her source of food.

When Mo gets called on his walkie-talkie to another part of the park, I slip off my sandals, put them on the deck next to me, and drop my feet into the water. I see right away that the dolphin notices. Maybe it’s the sound of my toes breaking the surface that alerts her. She lifts her head up. But then she moves away from the fence and comes a little closer to me and Rachel starts encouraging her, trying to lead her in the direction of her own open arms but instead, the dolphin makes its way over to me.

“Can I get in the water with her?”

Rachel looks surprised that I’d even ask, but with the dolphin at my feet now she relents. “Okay. Go suit up. And tie back your hair.”

I always keep a swimsuit in my bag now, for days when Nesto and I steal away from work at lunchtime or after we finish the day and go for a swim at Hemlock Beach before sunset. I go into the locker room to change and take one of the spare wetsuits they keep on hangers in the corner, and walk back to the pen as fast as I can, hoping Mo or any of the vets won’t stop me to ask questions.

The dolphin is back by the fence when I get there, and when I lower myself off the deck into the water at the shallow end, feeling the mushy sand under my feet, she turns again and comes directly toward me.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Rachel asks.

“No. Why?”

“Sometimes they’re attracted to pregnant women. They can sense it with their echolocation.”

Now the dolphin is in front of me, dipping her head into my side. I let my fingers run against her dorsal fin, along her rubbery back.

“Just relax,” Rachel tells me, though she doesn’t need to. I feel the power in the dolphin’s body, the way the water parts at her slightest movement and rushes against me, but I stand there, letting her swim circles around me, weaving through the water, kicking up her fluke, and back to my side again.

Rachel steps back toward the deck and returns to the spot I’ve claimed with the dolphin at the center of the pen, handing me a bucket of fish, telling me to try feeding her. I take one fish at a time out of the bucket, offering them to the dolphin, and she pulls the fish out of my fingers with her teeth until I go through all of them and leave the bucket empty. I expect Rachel to be happy with this, but she watches me with her hands on her hips, her lips tightly screwed. She says she next wants to see if with my help we can get the dolphin interested in some of the toys, and we take turns tossing an inflatable ball to each other. But the dolphin goes underwater, shooting to the deeper corners of the pen, only to reappear in front of me, tossing her head up, making clicking noises.

“She’s showing off for you,” Rachel says, sounding even more annoyed.

By now, a few others from the staff have gathered on the deck, including Nesto.

Mo comes to the front of the group on the deck, eying me with disapproval.

“I think you should get out of the water now, Reina. Leave Rachel to get back to her work with Zoe.”

“I got her to eat a whole bucket of fish,” I call back to him.

“You’re not trained to be in the water with the animals. Do me a favor and get out of there now .”