After the Hurricane(61)
Elena does not say anything for the rest of the car trip, and Fernando rushes to fill the silence she has left. He tells her about trees and flowers they pass. He tells her about his own field of study. He tells her how bad it is that they haven’t hit more traffic. She lets the words flow over her, but they do not soothe her anger. Her pain.
“This is prime surfing time in Rincón. It’s popular for the swells, surfers love it. The fact that there is no one on the road, no one heading there, isn’t a good thing. It means the tourists are scared, and the island will suffer without the money.”
Elena doesn’t respond, merely looks out to the ocean. The waves are massive, bigger than Elena has ever seen on the island, bigger than they ever are in San Juan and its surrounding beaches. They are also empty. The mountains of water rise and fall devoid of sun-bleached surfers sliding along them, the movement looking so easy, so free.
Fernando’s jaw is set.
“Where should I be driving?” he asks her, and Elena realizes she will have to talk to him, direct him. She opens the email she received the night before from Diego, who gave her his address.
“I think it’s off Calle Cambija. Let me map it,” she says, her tone sharp, and does so. She directs Fernando with as few words as possible, and they are soon in front of a little beach shack, a salt-faded pitted sign proclaiming that the place is called Tito’s. And behind it, twenty feet away, is a bright green house built close to the beach, sitting on cement stilts, raised off the ground, and accessible by a set of cement steps. It is so close to the sea that, no doubt when the tide is high or the storms are bad, the sea will surround the house, leaving it stranded from land.
“Okay. I’m here. Thanks for the ride,” she says, refusing to make eye contact, and reaches for the door.
“Wait! I can’t just let you go alone, this man is a stranger, something could happen to you,” Fernando says.
“I got in a car with a stranger this morning, obviously I’m okay with strangers,” Elena says, bitterly. She’s an idiot, she knows, all of this nonsense of her own making. She should have known he was too good to be true. Most people are.
“Elena, I’m sorry. I should have done this differently. I’m not, like, scheming to steal your father’s house. I just wanted to make an offer.”
“I don’t have time to think about this right now,” Elena says. “I just don’t. Okay? So thanks for the ride, and rest assured, if I find out my father is dead in a ditch somewhere I will certainly let you know so you can buy the house and I can get the fuck out of here. Sound good?”
“Look, I’m going to call you, check in on you. I don’t feel right about this.”
“Of course you’re going to call me. You have to check in on your potential investment, don’t you?”
She slams the door shut before she can hear his response, and looks at the house, watching as the front door opens and a man emerges. He is tall with graying hair and a leathery face, his long limbs covered in a faded button-down shirt and a pair of board shorts. He walks toward the beach shack as Elena reaches it, and it feels like something out of a movie, some destined thing. Elena looks behind him, a surge of hope as strong as the hard waves crashing to the shore, rider-less, but no one else emerges, this man is alone. Maybe my father is there, maybe he’s sleeping, maybe the door will open—
“Elena?” the man says, with a hint of disbelief.
“Are you Diego?” Elena asks, like this is natural, normal, what else can she do? He smiles, the wrinkles in his face deep and calming. Before she knows what to say next or do he is hugging her, and it feels so strange, more kindness from a stranger, another thing she cannot, should not, trust.
“Where is my father?” she asks, knowing she sounds like the lost little girl he left at a Home Depot, trying not to care. “Is he here?” The sudden stiffness of his body tells her the truth before his mouth can.
“He’s not here, Elena.”
Of course not. He’s never where he’s supposed to be.
“Okay, then. So. Tell me. Who the fuck are you?” Elena asks, rage and pain making her bold. Diego smiles.
“You look like him, but my god, you sound just like Rosie. Is your friend coming in?”
“He’s not my friend,” Elena says, following Diego into the house, refusing to look back. Only the insane do the same thing over and over again and expect a new result, and Elena is not insane. At least, she doesn’t think so. More and more, she isn’t entirely sure. After all, apparently she comes from a long line of madness.
Eleven
The winter in New Haven was every bit as terrible as Santiago thought it would be, and he fantasized about California every day. He should have put the application back in the trash. Coming to Yale was a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life. He wondered if anyone had ever thought that before, and smiled grimly.
The truth was, though, that he loved it. He loved the work, even if he hated the place. Law school was hard, of course, but he was ready for how hard things could be this time. And he was confident, this time, not arrogant and ignorant as he had been before, but confident. They wanted him here. No one was going to talk him out of knowing he belonged on this campus, no matter how hard they tried. And they did. The Yale law students were a whole new breed compared with the Stanford undergraduates. Competitive, self-assured, the children of Important People, the capitals clear. But also smart, so smart, and idealistic, and they had such vision for the future. These would not be corporate lawyers, small-claims people, or real estate attorneys. These would be people who would change the American legal system.