Ruthless River Read online

  Our chairs were near the edge of the roof. On the street below us people walked up and down the hill in small groups, or alone, some silent, some talking. I wondered what stories they had to tell, what desires and dreams they would either embrace or push away. I wanted a future filled with adventure and imagined that Fitz did, too.

  I admired the old brick buildings, their inset doors with brass knockers, sun sparkling off the glass of bay windows, framed by embossed green copper, and window boxes filled with red and pink geraniums.

  “I love it,” I turned to Fitz. “I feel like I’m on top of the world!”

  “We are.” He smiled at me.

  I got flustered when I felt he was looking at me for too long. “What?”

  “Sorry. I was just noticing the sun on your hair. It’s pretty.” He had his hands folded in his lap and looked down at his feet. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me too,” I quickly remarked. “And I’m so glad you got your wish to be on Beacon Hill.” I was happy for him, and happy that he was sharing it with me.

  After we climbed down the ladder from the roof, Fitz broiled the steak and mashed the potatoes.

  “Thanks for the groceries, Holly.” He turned from the stove. “It’s a welcome change from what I’ve been eating!” He pointed to an open fifty-pound burlap sack of onions, about three feet tall, in the corner of the kitchen. I had smelled it even before he’d opened the door to the apartment. His sun-bronzed curls fell forward on his forehead as he leaned down to take the steak from the broiler.

  “I bought it for a dollar at Haymarket. A dollar for fifty pounds of onions!” He stood up, his eyes sparkling. “Can you believe it? What a bargain.”

  I hadn’t the heart to tell him the onions were sold cheaply because they were spoiling. I just agreed, charmed by his optimism in the midst of bleak reality.

  As Fitz gave me platters to bring to the table, his fingers brushed my hand. Goose bumps immediately raised on my neck. Quickly, I turned my attention to the hot, juicy steak and carried it to the table.

  He finished mashing the potatoes, but he wasn’t finished with his story. He told me the train attendant wouldn’t let him on the T with the onions because they stank. Fitz’s shoulders heaved up and down as he burst into a roar. “I couldn’t give up such a good deal, so I lugged that damned thing all the way from Haymarket, down Cambridge Street, and up Beacon Hill. Then up the stairs. People were sidestepping every which way to get away from me!”

  My sides ached, I was giggling so hard. I began to hiccup and looked at Fitz. We both doubled over, catching the giddiness from each other, like a ball thrown back and forth. I felt free, as if flying, or dancing with a really good partner. “How could you carry something so heavy so far?”

  “Used to the weight, I guess. In ’Nam I humped the platoon radio, a six-pound spare battery, plus my rifle and everything else the other guys carried. That’s why the radioman gets an extra ration of warm beer—on the rare occasions when there is beer.”

  The last of the evening sun fell on Fitz’s face like warm fire, magenta rays cascading through the windows. He pulled out a chair for me and we sat down to eat. I complimented his cooking, which segued into stories of food and family and people we both knew. The conversation took off into unknown corners. Fitz told funny stories, and I told some of my own.

  But Fitz’s first story was still on my mind.

  “You can make anything funny. But, really, what are you going to do? You can’t just eat onions.”

  We looked at each other and guffawed again.

  “This is a temporary situation,” Fitz explained. “I’m a writer. To make a living I’ll write for newspapers…only tomorrow I have to go to the pawnshop. I’m down to zero. Would you like to come?”

  “Sure. Why not? I’ve never been to a pawnshop.”

  I was a little concerned that Fitz was so strapped, but I was intrigued by him.

  After we’d stuffed ourselves, Fitz looked me in the eyes. “You know, I always wait outside your classroom. I look in the window of the door to see if you’re there, but the minute the bell rings and the door opens, I take off.”

  “You’re kidding!” I was as delighted as I was astonished. He looked down at the floor and smiled sheepishly.

  “Well, why don’t you stay until I come out?”

  Pushing his chair back, he stretched his legs. A small nervous cough came from his throat.

  “I don’t know. Tongue-tied, I guess.”

  “You? I can’t believe that!”

  “Well, it’s been known to happen to guys, you know, around a beautiful girl.”

  He looked up and his eyes, deep azure, met mine. I wanted to glance away but his gaze held me. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Do you mean to say that if I hadn’t brought you groceries, you never would have said anything?”

  “Well, I hope I would have…I don’t know. I guess I never thought you’d be interested, a classy girl like you.” His elbow brushed against his fork and it crashed to the floor.

  “Gee,” I said, reaching to pick it up, thankful for something to do to hide my blushing face. “You’re giving me all kinds of compliments, but I never would have known…” I bumped Fitz’s head as he leaned down at the same time.

  “Are you all right? I’ll get some ice.”

  “I’m fine.” I had to laugh. He’d set me at ease from the start, though my stomach remained fluttery the entire night.

  Next day we met on Beacon Street to walk over to the pawnshop. It was a warm Saturday morning, and we took our time, peering over glossy black iron fences into little gardens, admiring the shiny door knockers and crisp, newly painted doors and shutters that ran along the charming brick sidewalks.

  I pointed to a hydrangea vine climbing a trellis against a brick row house. As my hand fell back to my side it brushed Fitz’s. Silently, he took my hand. We continued on down colonial Beacon Hill. Nothing had changed but the beating of my heart. Fitz’s hand felt natural in mine, like it should have been there all along. We crossed the grassy Boston Common to Park Square, pausing to look back at the gold State House dome glittering in the sunlight. Then, dodging traffic, we turned left on Stuart Street, finding ourselves immersed in the peculiar urban mix known as the Combat Zone.

  Fitz and I hurried past strip clubs and pornographic theaters to reach Chinatown, where even public telephones were shaped like pagodas. We strode past the Boston Herald Traveler newspaper building and into a gritty neighborhood of bars, army-and-navy surplus stores, and laborers lined up at Manpower hoping for a day’s work. Next door was a business that cashed checks for large fees in the shadow of the elevated train. Fitz joked that a homeless shelter was down the street—just in case.

  I had only been involved with Fitz for a day, but already we were lifting the veil on Boston together.

  We reached the pawnshop in the South End. The pawnbroker was protected in his glass cage with metal bars. Fitz had brought a silver-plated goblet to swap for cash, and he immediately started to charm the man into giving him a good price. I looked around the dingy shelves of clocks and camera equipment. The floor was covered in chipped linoleum. Scratched glass-topped counters displayed bangles, trinkets, and a couple of guns. This was a very different part of life staring me in the face. I supposed it was good for me to see it firsthand, but it startled me to see Fitz enter this world so easily. I wasn’t sure if this was his personality, or if his time in Vietnam had led to an “eat, drink, and be merry” attitude, resulting in him spending his very last penny.

  Undaunted, he handed over the goblet.

  “Five bucks,” the man in the cage grunted through a hole, a cigar hanging out of his mouth, smoke swirling around his head.

  Fitz nodded then pocketed the money and the receipt that shot out from a bin under the counter. As we left the shop, I noticed a spring in his gait. He would live on those five dollars for another few days.

  Once we started dating more seriously, Fitz found a regula
r job in the bowels of Massachusetts General Hospital. We finished up our year of classes and I received my master’s of education in counseling. Fitz began sending résumés out to New England newspapers and was hired as a reporter. We weren’t able to afford much back then, but he proposed to me with a gorgeous blue enamel and coral bracelet and a puppy I named Zelda. Two months later, we were married in Connecticut, where I began my career in counseling. When we started saving for our worldwide trip we called it our delayed honeymoon.

  —

  A loud roar brought me back to the canteen and the jungle. When I looked around, I noticed we cardplayers were the only people still in the mess hall.

  “I’ve got it,” one of the Sepa prison guards announced in Spanish. He laid his cards on the table and counted his points. The generator sputtered, signaling that it needed more gas.

  “Good game,” Fitz said, stretching. “Want to call it a night, Hol? We’ve had a hell of a day.”

  A guard accompanied us to our bunks in the darkness. As we followed the beam from his flashlight a guttural growl came out of the trees to the right of us.

  “What’s that?” I grabbed Fitz’s arm.

  “Jaguar!” the guard hissed. “¡Vamos!” A branch snapped.

  “Hurry, Fitz!”

  We rushed into the barracks and climbed into our bunks in the dark. The lights from the generator were already out, and the other passengers were asleep.

  Pulling the sheets over my face, I listened beyond my own heavy breathing for the jaguar outside. “Fitz, do you hear that?”

  Fitz, who could fall asleep quickly, was already lightly snoring. I couldn’t believe how he did it. I reminded myself that at least we had cement walls and a guard outside.

  Chapter 5

  Prisoners

  FEBRUARY 8

  I awoke to the sound of rain on the metal roof. Too muddy for a plane to land. Another day of waiting. My sleep had been fitful, the jungle noises meshing with dreams of the plane’s engines chewing up the trees. I also dreamt that Fitz and I couldn’t find each other. Rubbing my eyes, I saw Fitz’s bump in the bunk above me. He was still sleeping, but the rest of the barracks was empty. The others must have gone off for breakfast. Needing to go to the outhouse, I remembered the guard had told us not to walk outside alone.

  “Fitz, wake up.” I gently pushed at the lump. It moved.

  “What?”

  “Will you take me on an outhouse date?”

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” Fitz said, yawning.

  “Ha!” I laughed and began to search for the toilet paper roll in my backpack.

  When we appeared in the doorway, a guard who had been sitting there all night stopped us. “Take a big stick. Bang it on the ground as you walk. The snakes will know you’re coming and won’t come out.”

  We obediently took up sticks and thumped down the sopping path toward a line of guards and plane passengers also waiting at the outhouse. I could smell pancakes and coffee as we passed the mess hall. A toucan called out from a nearby tree, as if in response to the prisoners who were yelling at each other. Small rodents scurried by me into the brush.

  We’d learned from the guards that one of the prisoners baked and sold bread. Fitz pointed to a hut on the prisoners’ side, just as the sun came out. “I wonder if that’s the bakery.”

  I peered across the field and sniffed the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

  As the only baker in the penal colony, the prisoner had a monopoly on the bread market. He was, however, disgruntled about something and had gone on strike. The guards had assured us that things would soon be worked out and there should be bread by lunchtime.

  We walked past outbuildings where prisoners chopped back jungle paths with machetes. Some of the men leered at us as we passed. I told Fitz I hoped he would always accompany me to the outhouse and stand guard.

  “I wouldn’t want you going alone,” he said, catching the eye of a prisoner as we banged our sticks on the muddy trail.

  When we closed in on the outhouse, its smell hung heavy in the damp air. After waiting in line for several minutes I gingerly stepped inside to find a hole had been cut into a wooden box for a toilet seat. I didn’t dare look down. Flies flew up from the hole as I fumbled with the hook on the inside of the door. The narrow wooden hut had a small diamond-shaped screened window, but the smell still left me gasping. I tried to hurry, sweat rimming my face.

  When I leaned in to open the door again it wouldn’t budge. “Fitz, please pull the door!” It gave way immediately and I stumbled out into the exquisite fresh air. “Next time I’m finding some bushes; that was awful.”

  “Not with all the snakes and prisoners around here,” Fitz said. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “Sure it can,” I said, grimacing, and held the door for him to enter. “Good luck!”

  While I waited for him, I stared across the soccer field at the adobe-and-cement prison huts. Their corrugated metal roofs looked just like the ones in Pucallpa. There was also a reed hut with a thatched roof. The guards had told us that the prisoners ran a shop for cigarettes, soap, and other necessities, adding that we could go over there for supplies if we wanted to. I was mystified at where the prisoners got the items. Even in the middle of nowhere, in their constricted circumstances, these men had a social system that seemed to work.

  As I watched them I couldn’t help but wonder at the differences between the prisoners and us. Fitz and I were young suburban Americans, raised in families who had enjoyed a level of privilege and freedom that these men would never know. My dad was an architect who’d attended Ivy League schools. My mom’s dad had been in shipping, senior vice president of what became United States Lines, having worked his way up by reading law. Mom graduated from Chapin School in Manhattan then went on to Bennington College. Her career as a sculptress was interrupted for a few years when she moved with her best friend to Stowe, Vermont, to open a ski lodge.

  I was the first of two daughters; Fitz was the second of four brothers and sisters. His father, Brian, had emigrated from Ireland to New York at age eleven. Brian never attended high school but read constantly and valued education above all things. After an apprenticeship to a plasterer, he became a New York City police officer. Following the war, he was admitted to Columbia University, graduating after nine years of night classes. Fitz’s mother had been raised by her grandmother then sent from Ohio at fourteen to find her own way in New York. She supported herself while attending night school and learned to fly an airplane before she learned to drive. Until this trip, I hadn’t fully fathomed how fortunate we’d been to live in a country of opportunities. I’d taken so much for granted.

  On our first sunny morning in Sepa we were all told at breakfast to ready our bags and bring them outside to depart. We cheered then took leave of our gracious hosts with vigorous good-byes.

  Fitz and I dragged our packs across the field and along the memorable jungle trail. Wheelbarrow man was nowhere in sight. We took the boat to the grass landing strip and waited in the heat for three hours, our backs turned to the old plane’s mangled carcass. Eventually a guard appeared. “No plane today. Not dry enough.” He guided us back across the river and up the trail to Sepa.

  The line for the lunch of tuna and rice was quiet. I sniffed the air for bread. “No hay,” the server said. We were all served Jell-O instead.

  Fitz and I resumed our routine of playing cards and reading books as we counted down the hours to make our boat. We had just three days to reach Puerto Maldonado before it left.

  Later that afternoon Fitz looked across the field. “Want to go over there and see if the baker’s back to work yet?”

  “It creeps me out,” I said, but I didn’t want him to go alone. Besides, we didn’t have anything else to do. Four thin prisoners and a rotund one watched us approach.

  “No bread,” they told us.

  The bull-like man came forward, eyeing Fitz. “You have cigarettes?”

  Fitz pulled his pack
out of his pocket and handed him one. The other men quickly moved around us. “More,” they said. Fitz handed each one a cigarette then began to shove the pack into his pocket. “More,” the big man insisted.

  Fitz hesitated. He was taller than any of them, but it was five against two (if you counted me), and they had shovels.

  I stood beside Fitz, holding my breath and looking at the prisoners’ severe, haunted faces, hoping Fitz wouldn’t try to slug one of them. He offered the cigarette pack to the bull-like prisoner just as a soldier appeared behind us, rifle slung over his shoulder and a stick in his hand.

  “Take your cigarettes,” he ordered, standing tall in his starched, neatly pressed uniform. “Don’t come back here.”

  We fled across the field, hearing the yelling but not looking back to witness the strong thwacks from the guard’s stick.

  —

  Some of the South American travelers were becoming seriously aggravated, making it clear to the guards that they had work and families to get home to. They complained that they were missing birthdays and weddings. The woman with the sagging curls was particularly snarly. “I have to get back. My husband will have your heads if you don’t get me home soon,” she warned, reciting his credentials as she stomped in circles across the mess hall floor. Her white-and-green polka-dotted dress was wrinkled and mud stained, and her pumps would never be white again.

  The guards wagged their heads. “The weather’s not in our hands.”

  All Fitz and I could think about was bread. When we didn’t see it for dinner I began to suspect the baker and the bread were nonexistent. I wondered how long we would be stranded inside this forbidding jungle. Part of me was still hopeful we would make it to Carnaval.