Read Online American Tropic by Thomas Sanchez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Sanchez
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bring me back. Marriage is not a one-way street just going your way. The street goes both ways.” She turns and walks off, leaving Noah alone with his rose.
Along the entire length of the concrete pier, the diesel engines of shrimping boats roar to life. The crowd rushesto the pier’s edge, waving good-bye to the boats motoring away. The lights of the fleet become distant on the sea’s horizon.
L ong after the fleet has disappeared and the crowd has left the pier, Noah and Luz stand alone in the night in front of Noah’s trawler. A stiff breeze off the ocean blows in, tugging at Luz’s white guayabera shirt. She looks impatiently at Noah. “It’s late; I need to get home to my family. Why did you ask me to stay behind with you?”
“I need your help with something. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Joan.”
“I don’t keep secrets from Joan. What’s so important that can’t be talked about in front of your sister?”
“I’ll show you.” Noah leads the way onto his trawler. They walk across the deck into the dark pilothouse. Noah switches on the overhead light and calls out in French, “It’s safe! No need to hide!” He waits for an answer—silence—calls out again: “This woman I brought can help.” He moves to the storage closet in the corner, pushes back its canvas curtain, and looks inside. “Damn, the boy is gone.”
“What boy?” Luz walks to the closet and peers in. “Who’s supposed to be in here?”
Noah doesn’t answer. He picks up a half-finished bottle of rum from the broadcasting table and uncorks it. Hetakes a swig as he stares through the pilothouse window at the ocean. “Makes no difference now who he is. He’s vanished.”
L uz steers her white Charger down the main drag of Duval Street. The flanking sidewalks are crowded with gawking tourists passing gaudy trinket shops, boisterous open-air bars crowded with long-haired motorcycle bikers, tattoo parlors filled with glassy-eyed stoned teenagers, and chattering people at outdoor restaurant tables beneath towering banyan trees. Luz keeps a vigilant eye for lowlife crack dealers, skinhead punks pimping young runaway girls from the North, and tweaked meth-heads looking to start a fight with someone, or with themselves, or with a plate-glass window.
Sitting next to Luz in the passenger seat is Chicken, the one-eared scarred pit bull. Chicken licks his chops as she takes a deep-fried conch fritter from a bag wedged between her thighs. She munches on the fritter as she continues to drive with one hand on the steering wheel. She glances over at the dog, sitting patiently on his haunches, waiting for a handout. “Chicken, you want a fritter?” The dog whines with pitiful expectation. She plucks a fritter from the bag and holds up the greasy ball to Chicken’s mouth. “Careful, don’t bite my fingers off.” The dog’s pink tongue slurps the fritter gently from between her fingers. He swallows with a loud gurgle. She pats his broad headaffectionately. “You really are a lover, not a fighter. I like that in a man.”
Luz turns off Duval Street and drives out of town, past streets lined with palms shading eighteenth-century wood houses painted in bright Caribbean colors. She continues on to the outskirts of Key West, with its sleazy motels, fast-food drive-in joints, and run-down shopping centers. She heads up the Overseas Highway, crossing bridges linking the islands of the Keys. The farther Luz travels, the less man-made distractions line the highway, until, finally, there are none. On one side are the Gulf of Mexico’s turquoise-colored waters. On the other side, the vivid indigo of the Atlantic Ocean. She looks through her car’s windshield; the atmosphere is pristine, dominated by the changing light reflected from the two great bodies of water. In the pale-blue sky, spread-winged white herons sail between columns of clouds. The herons soar high on hot wind currents, then swoop down, gliding to graceful
Along the entire length of the concrete pier, the diesel engines of shrimping boats roar to life. The crowd rushesto the pier’s edge, waving good-bye to the boats motoring away. The lights of the fleet become distant on the sea’s horizon.
L ong after the fleet has disappeared and the crowd has left the pier, Noah and Luz stand alone in the night in front of Noah’s trawler. A stiff breeze off the ocean blows in, tugging at Luz’s white guayabera shirt. She looks impatiently at Noah. “It’s late; I need to get home to my family. Why did you ask me to stay behind with you?”
“I need your help with something. I didn’t want to mention it in front of Joan.”
“I don’t keep secrets from Joan. What’s so important that can’t be talked about in front of your sister?”
“I’ll show you.” Noah leads the way onto his trawler. They walk across the deck into the dark pilothouse. Noah switches on the overhead light and calls out in French, “It’s safe! No need to hide!” He waits for an answer—silence—calls out again: “This woman I brought can help.” He moves to the storage closet in the corner, pushes back its canvas curtain, and looks inside. “Damn, the boy is gone.”
“What boy?” Luz walks to the closet and peers in. “Who’s supposed to be in here?”
Noah doesn’t answer. He picks up a half-finished bottle of rum from the broadcasting table and uncorks it. Hetakes a swig as he stares through the pilothouse window at the ocean. “Makes no difference now who he is. He’s vanished.”
L uz steers her white Charger down the main drag of Duval Street. The flanking sidewalks are crowded with gawking tourists passing gaudy trinket shops, boisterous open-air bars crowded with long-haired motorcycle bikers, tattoo parlors filled with glassy-eyed stoned teenagers, and chattering people at outdoor restaurant tables beneath towering banyan trees. Luz keeps a vigilant eye for lowlife crack dealers, skinhead punks pimping young runaway girls from the North, and tweaked meth-heads looking to start a fight with someone, or with themselves, or with a plate-glass window.
Sitting next to Luz in the passenger seat is Chicken, the one-eared scarred pit bull. Chicken licks his chops as she takes a deep-fried conch fritter from a bag wedged between her thighs. She munches on the fritter as she continues to drive with one hand on the steering wheel. She glances over at the dog, sitting patiently on his haunches, waiting for a handout. “Chicken, you want a fritter?” The dog whines with pitiful expectation. She plucks a fritter from the bag and holds up the greasy ball to Chicken’s mouth. “Careful, don’t bite my fingers off.” The dog’s pink tongue slurps the fritter gently from between her fingers. He swallows with a loud gurgle. She pats his broad headaffectionately. “You really are a lover, not a fighter. I like that in a man.”
Luz turns off Duval Street and drives out of town, past streets lined with palms shading eighteenth-century wood houses painted in bright Caribbean colors. She continues on to the outskirts of Key West, with its sleazy motels, fast-food drive-in joints, and run-down shopping centers. She heads up the Overseas Highway, crossing bridges linking the islands of the Keys. The farther Luz travels, the less man-made distractions line the highway, until, finally, there are none. On one side are the Gulf of Mexico’s turquoise-colored waters. On the other side, the vivid indigo of the Atlantic Ocean. She looks through her car’s windshield; the atmosphere is pristine, dominated by the changing light reflected from the two great bodies of water. In the pale-blue sky, spread-winged white herons sail between columns of clouds. The herons soar high on hot wind currents, then swoop down, gliding to graceful
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